


Wonderland

by isthisenoughorcanwegohigher



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: this was written in honor of it being one year since i saw the death cure, yes it has angst, yes it's based on another song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 06:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18823084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher/pseuds/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher
Summary: It's been a year since Thomas lost Newt. He's moved on, but it still plagues him.





	Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> _We found wonderland_   
>  _You and I got lost in it_   
>  _And life was never worse but never better_

The weather at the Safe Haven hardly changed. The only places you really noticed the shift in seasons was up in the mountains, if you had the patience to climb high up, and then you would feel it get colder. On the days when the survivors considered themselves really lucky, they might even spot some snow.

But it never lasted. The only nasty weather that lasted were the thunderstorms and the rain, the sweeping sheets of stinging cold water that trapped them in the leaking shelters that were still being built, even now.

Thomas wasn’t exactly sure. He’d never been good with keeping track of time, and it was even harder now, when he’d been in one place for so long, but Thomas would bet that if he had access to a calendar, it would confirm the reason that the familiar ache had snuck back into his stomach in the early hours of the morning, waking him up just in time to swing his feet out of his hammock, lean over, and vomit.

It had been a year since the events of The Last City. A year since he’d gone on the insane mission to rescue Minho from WCKD headquarters. A year since he’d jumped out of a window into a decorative fountain and actually survived. A year since he’d watched Teresa slip into the flames of the crumbling building, lost forever. A year since–a year since Newt had frozen in his grip, a quiet and shocked gasp spilling past his lips, knife embedded in his chest.

A year since Newt died.

Groaning and swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, Thomas accepted that he wasn’t going back to sleep now and stood. He felt his way outside and stepped barefoot onto the grass, blinking in the pre-dawn light.

The phantom ache of a gunshot wound pulsated in his side, and he pressed his palm harshly into his skin. It had healed well, for a bullet wound. There was still a small scar about the length of his fingernail, stark white against the now usually tanned skin.

There was no escaping the sun for long at the Safe Haven.

Minho didn’t mind the scar, or the constant tan of Thomas’s skin. In fact, one of his favorite activities when they lay in bed together at the end of the day was to slip his hand under Thomas’s shirt and run his fingers over the scar.

Thomas smiled, briefly escaping the morning chill in the memory of how warm he felt curled up with Minho, but it was interrupted by the unfamiliar-familiar guilt.

_Take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy._

The words taunted Thomas, echoing in his ears, Newt’s voice repeating them on a loop. Every time he thought of them, even now, Thomas was sure that Newt was lurking just behind him, out of sight.

Out of sight, out of mind. That was something Jorge said a lot, and every time it made Thomas want to scream. Newt was as out of sight as one could get, buried beneath the sand, an unmarked grave that no one would remember when the Gladers had gone from this world. But he was never out of mind.

Not even now, a year later, could Thomas ever stop thinking of him. He saw Newt everywhere, in everyone, in everything.

He saw him in the way Sonya’s eyes sparkled when she laughed. Heard him in the cadence Gally spoke with, sometimes saying things exactly the same way Newt had. Thomas often wondered if Newt had picked up on it from Gally or vice versa. He felt Newt in the warm summer breezes that felt like his fingers trailing down his back.

He remembered Newt, always, in every little touch, every kiss, every glance he shared with Minho.

And this, each memory of Newt, every touch shared with Minho, made Thomas feel like he wasn’t just listening to Newt’s advice. Sure, Newt had wanted Thomas to take care of himself, to make sure he was happy. And at first, Thomas had been furious.

How could he ever be happy again, without Newt? How could he move on? For weeks he’d had vivid nightmares of the fight: the fire reflecting in the glass and metal all around them, in the deep black of Newt’s eyes, the screaming of the war around them that faded to background noise as the only sound Thomas found he could hear was the screeching and panting coming from Newt, the inky black veins protruding from Newt’s skin, the terror on his face when he was conscious of what was happening, the sharp sting of metal being pushed into his chest, the cool, slick feel of the handle of the knife in his grip, wet with sweat and Newt’s blood, the final gasp–it was usually at that point that one of his friends managed to wake him up, throat sore and eyes red.

For months after he’d been haunted by Newt’s face, as he had been before the Flare–smirking, confident, gorgeous–and his eyes, criticizing Thomas, studying him for everything he was worth.

At first the guilt had been because he hated Newt. He hated him so much for leaving him alone, for not holding on long enough, for giving up on himself, on Thomas, on what they had. Thomas hated hating Newt. He loved Newt. Hating him ate away at him.

Then the guilt came because Thomas started to feel…not happy, but an approximation of it. He felt at home. He felt content. And Newt would never be able to feel that again.

And–Thomas was sure it would be an everlasting feeling–the guilt buried itself deep in his chest, nestled firmly between his heart and his lungs, often leaving him breathless and ill, the moment he realized that he’d fallen in love with Minho.

Thomas’s thoughts came to a halt. He looked up. Lost in his own head, his feet had carried him to the one place he longed to be and the place he most often avoided. The memorial rock. Newt’s burial place.

He lifted his hand and traced the letters Minho had carved into the stone, spelling out Newt’s name. His fingers ghosted over the rock, hesitant to touch it. Hesitant to make it real.

Oh, it had been real for a long time now. As real as the sand beneath his feet, as real as the waves crashing onto the shore, as real as each fiery drag of nails across his back, as real as the leather cord around his neck, as real as the letter folded into the metal canister that always rested just above his sternum.

But despite the passing of a year, Thomas had never found a proper way to say goodbye to Newt. He’d come to the memorial rock his first proper day to carve Teresa’s name, and he’d come back to see Alby and Winston and Chuck, even Ben and Rachel, Mary, everyone they’d lost in the fight to get here. Everyone but Newt.

Now, though, the words came easily. The pressure of his fingers on the stone increased, and he could feel how smooth it was around Newt’s name. For a reason he couldn’t quite place, this surprised him.

“I guess they still miss you as much as I do,” he said. “I, uh, I do miss you. It’s just hard. Really hard. Still hurts, which feels stupid sometimes, because it’s been so long. I wish I’d done things differently, you know, so you could be here, which sucks, because Minho–” Thomas lost his nerve for a moment. “It’s different without you here, man. I wish you could be here. We did it. And I-I’m sorry. I’m sorry you can’t be here.”


End file.
